


Knucklebones

by The Feels Whale (miscellea)



Series: Court of the Bitter King [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Especially when your family is a pack of immortals without much in the way of a moral compass, Family is complicated, M/M, Magic!Stiles, blessings are heavier than curses, court of the bitter king
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:55:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellea/pseuds/The%20Feels%20Whale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because they're your family doesn't mean it's safe for you to turn your back on them.</p>
<p>Stiles spends an evening playing dice with a relative ...with his entire identity on the line.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knucklebones

It’s midnight by the time Stiles reaches the GPS coordinates texted to his phone along with a picture of his dad’s face.

As much as Derek and his pack like the claim that the woods around Beacon Hills are their territory, Stiles has been wandering through them since he was only half a flicker of an idea hiding in the safety of his mother’s shadow. He knows every nook and cranny of these woods because she knew them and when she was alive the trees breathed with her.

(He wonders sometimes if the trees breathe for him now or if they’re still waiting to see what he’ll become.)

Dry leaves crunch under his sneakers as he hops down out of his Jeep and pats her hood. It’s said that things can grow a soul if only you love them enough and if that’s the case then he thinks his beautiful girl must have the biggest soul of them all. Her engine pings and clicks restively as it cools like silver shod hooves on pavement.

“Easy.” He murmurs and puts the parking brake on just in case. She’s never moved without his say-so, not within his sight, but she isn’t always waiting exactly where he parked her either.

The rowan grove at the heart of Beacon County isn’t a place where Stiles tends to go. Mountain Ash doesn’t affect him the same way it does werewolves, but it represents a very human sort of magic. It will work for or against him depending on his intentions so he has no guarantee of protection here.

A boy is waiting for him in the grove seated on an old stump as he rattles a cup of knucklebones and throws them for himself. He inspects the results and scoops them back up to throw again. Stiles eyes, however, are drawn past him to the bodies slumped on the ground amongst the trees. His heart seizes in his chest until he sees the slow rise-and-fall of his father’s chest, of Scott’s, of Derek, Isaac, Erica, Boyd, Lydia, _Jackson_ …

“Did you set out to catch _everyone_ I know?” He asks as he approaches the boy, who watches him with pale golden-brown eyes that have a faintly luminous quality to them, like sunlight shining through a glass of bourbon.

“Your friends have a habit of rescuing you.” The boy replies and eyes him speculatively. He brushes his jaw with the back of his hand and when his fingers fall away there’s a new cluster of moles there mirroring the set that Stiles wears. “Hmm, looks like I missed some. My disguise was flawed.” He says. “It fooled _them_ though.”

  
Stiles shrugs. “They’re just starting out, Reynard. They’ll learn better in time.”

  
“True.” Reynard allows. “…but whether it will be you or me teaching them is the question we’re here to answer tonight.”

“Is that so?” Stiles falls into an easy crouch across from his kinsman. “This is a very dangerous game you’re playing. Are you sure you want to? It’s not too late.”

“I want to.” Reynard grins with teeth that are too long, too sharp for real humanity. “I _always_ want to.”

Stiles feels his mouth twist in a sad parody of a smile. “Fair enough.” He agrees. “What’s the game?”

Reynard holds up his cup in the silvery moonlight. “What other game is there?” He asks. “ _Knucklebones_. Three throws. Best two out of three takes everything.”

Stiles nods his agreement. “All right then.” …but he lays a hand over Reynard’s as he goes to load his cup. “ _Your_ cup, Reynard. _My_ bones.” He reaches into his pocket and carefully lifts out a small drawstring bag made of watered silk. He pulls the mouth open and pours the ancient black bones into his palm.

Reynard’s lips screw together at the sight of those blackened ivory pieces, but he nods. “I can’t refuse.”

  
Stiles takes the first throw. The bones create musical chimes against the interior of the cup as he shakes the two together and then lets the contents fall onto the hard-packed earth between him and his opponent.

They inspect the results.

“Hah!” Reynard pumps his fist in the air and his eyes glitter in the poor light. “First round goes to me.” He takes the cup from Stiles and scoops up the bones with only the barest of hesitations.

A long sorrowful note echoes in the distance. It could be a night bird calling, if such a bird existed in California. Reynard looks up and then back down to where he’s shaking the cup.

He throws the bones and immediately scowls they hit the ground.

“My round.” Stiles says and holds his hand out for the cup. He gathers the bones and drops them into the cup just as another mournful note disrupts the quiet evening.

He looks to Reynard. “Last chance. I haven’t thrown them yet. You still have time.”

“Once you throw those bones,” There’s a growl underlining Reynard’s voice when he speaks. “ _I_ won’t be the one who has to run.”

Stiles tilts the cup over and lets the bones fall as they will. The tumble onto the ground, rolling under their own power, and Reynard’s eyes are hungry as he watches them settle. First one, then another, and his face falls as the last one rolls to a halt. His shoulders sag and his head droops.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles says and offers him the cup back, but Reynard holds up a hand to stop him.

“The stakes were everything.” He tilts his face back up into the light and Stiles’ features are melting off of it. His face grows sharper and leaner as whiskers sprout from his cheeks and his body dwindles in size. “I honor my losses.”

“I honor them as well.” Stiles collects his bones and stores them away back in their bag. When he looks back there is a fox crouched where Reynard was sitting. It looks at him with intelligent golden eyes and darts away into the underbrush just as the call of a hunting horn splits the silence of the grove in half.

The thundering sound of hooves on the hard late autumn earth fill the night and Stiles stands as the first rider plows into the grove followed by the rest of the Hallowed Hunt. They take little notice of him and the Hunt splits neatly around the stump where Stiles is sitting. So too do they avoid Reynard’s hostages on the ground as they surge through to the other side of the forest.

Stiles turns as the last rider enters the grove. Unlike the others he reins his mount first into an easy walk and then finally a halt as he reaches Stiles’ side.

He’s big and broad and buried under bronze armor wrought into cunning shapes and patterns. A pair of heavy golden antlers grace his forehead and not even Stiles can tell at this distance if they’re part of his raiment or part of him. Very little of his face is visible, except for a prominent nose protruding out of the shadow of his helm and silver eyes that shine even in the brightest light.

They look at one another for a long moment before Stiles finds his words. “I’m all right, Uncle.” He says. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

It’s not entirely a lie, but the truth is that he feels the weight of every one of his blessings bearing down on him like the most solemn of duties. The Hunt rides tonight and if his life had been just a little different it would have been him out there evading the dogs instead of one of his half-brothers.

The Huntmaster makes a noise that is halfway between a musical note and a hawk’s chirrup and reaches down to awkwardly pat Stiles on the head. The hand on his forehead is both heavy and at the same time lighter than it should be, as though the gauntlet touching him were empty.

Stiles steps back as his Uncle’s mount paws at the ground, ready to be off, and waves as they vanish into the darkness.

His dad is nowhere in the grove to be found, but that’s not entirely unexpected. Even Reynard –who’s been drowning in his own cunning and desperation since the day he named himself- knows better than to touch Stiles’ dad. There isn’t a lot he won’t forgive, but that sin is foremost among them.

Derek’s the first one to come to (of course he is) although that may be because Stiles is cheerfully slapping his cheeks back and forth between his hands. He blinks awake with eyes flickering back and forth between confused green and an angry red glitter. “Stiles, what the f…”

“Hey, don’t take that tone with me, Sourpatch.” He reproves. “I’m not the one who blundered into a grove full of Mountain Ash. Come on, give me your arm and I’ll help you over to the Jeep.”

“Mountain…?” Derek squints at the ground, but Stiles redirects his gaze to the trees.

“Mountain Ash.” He says. “It’s another name for a Rowan tree. That’s what it looks like before Deaton turns it into sparkly black dust.”

“Jesus, my head…” Derek allows himself to be shoved into the back seat of the Jeep. “How did we get here?”

“No idea, man.” Stiles says. “I tracked Scott’s GPS here and found you all passed out on the ground. There was a guy here, but I scared him off. We’ll have Doc Deaton check you out.”

“That’s…” Derek’s eyes flutter shut as he sags against the upholstery. “That’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is.” Stiles makes a _pfffft_ sound between his lips that comes out sounding more like a fart. “ _I_ had it.”

  
“That’s not the most reassuring thing I could be hearing right now.” Derek blinks and then turns his head. “… did your car just _snort_ at me?”

  
“Okay, now I _know_ you be trippin’.” Stiles shoves him over so he’ll have more room to load up more semi-conscious werewolves and when Derek isn’t looking he deals a swift kick to his Jeep’s rear tire. “Man, it’s not like I had other plans for my Saturday night. Who would turn down chauffeuring around seven people in a car that only fits five who are all _tripping balls_?”

  
“Cry about it some more.” Derek mutters with his eyes drifting shut and Stiles has to smile. He’s safely deflected for another day, it seems. It’s doubtful any of them will remember anything meaningful. Reynard’s always been good at that sort of thing.

  
One day soon Stiles knows he’ll be able to be up front with his pack, but that day is definitely not today. He’s still smiling when he catches a glimpse of himself in one of the side-view mirrors.

His eyes are reflecting the moonlight and ghostly antlers rise up from his brow, gilded silver by the pale blue light. The antlers are two shades more substantial than the diaphanous cloak that’s surrounded him his entire life, but that just may be because they’re a bit newer.

“Just what I need.” He murmurs. “ _Another_ blessing.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can blame[ Unicorn Empire](http://unicornempire.tumblr.com/) for this segment. She made this fantastic drawing of Stiles with Antlers for the last installment of ‘Court of the Bitter King’ and I was all ‘awww heck, that crown of thorny antlers is going to be a THING.’ So it’s all her fault, but if blame’s not your thing you could also go worship the ground she floats over [here](http://unicornempire.tumblr.com/) at her blog!


End file.
